


This Seat is Saved

by AlleiraDayne



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Awkward Romance, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Jealous Cullen, POV Cullen Rutherford
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 19:14:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7586533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlleiraDayne/pseuds/AlleiraDayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fluffy early interactions between Amallia Trevelyan and Cullen Rutherford.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Seat is Saved

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from -eledhwen- on Tumblr, for my 250+ Follower Giveaway.

“Commander!”

Her voice was like a siren’s song, undeniable and alluring as it called out to him. From the gates of Haven, Amallia Trevelyan loped a slow run across the path to the training yard with her typical smile.

Amallia was unlike any mage he had ever met. Most were wary of templars – even ex-templars such as himself. But she appeared at ease around him, even comfortable in his presence, and that baffled him.

“Yes, Herald?” he replied as she slowed to a halt by his side.

Her chest heaved with a few deep breaths before Cullen averted his eyes, unable to trust himself. That had become a problem as of late and it was no fault of her own. He _wanted_ to blame her. But it was he who had memorized her nightly stroll amongst the tents and around the perimeter of their tiny camp. Someone had to protect her. At least, he had convinced himself of that when, for the fifth night in a row, she had stumbled upon him in her path. And yet, the conversation had been entirely worth it.

“Are you …” she began, hesitation cracking her voice. “Do you …”

“Please, catch your breath,” he insisted. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Maker’s breath, but her smile sucked the air straight from his lungs as if he’d run a lap around the lake. A deep, clarifying breath seemed to steady her, but failed to slow his racing heart.

“Forgive me,” she apologized. “I’m a bit nervous. I don’t know how to say this.”

Her weight shifted from one foot to the other as her cheeks colored a bright pink, though from the cold wind or embarrassment he could not tell. And he knew not of what she spoke, taken aback by her sudden lack of confidence.

“Nervous? You’ve faced down demons and sealed the Breach, but talking with me makes you nervous?” he asked.

Loud laughter, his and hers alike, sang through the yard, drawing many curious eyes. Soldiers paused in their training to look, staring with disregard until Cullen shot them a glare.

“I can assure you, Commander,” she started once more and his attention returned to her. “That I would prefer rifts and demons over what I am trying to do.”

His smirk would not remain hidden. “Matters of the heart, then? I can only agree to send messengers for you, advice of that sort is not in my purview,” he said with a soft hum of more laughter.

“Alright, then,” she started with a breath. Her back straightened, jaw set, determination plain as day on her face. He let himself drown in the blazing blue flames that were her eyes, the world around him melting away. That was, until her voice, _Maker_ , _that voice_ , found his ears.

“Please send a message to the Commander that I would be delighted to see him tonight in the tavern with the rest of our companions to celebrate,” she stated with a firm nod of her head.

“I will—what?”

An impish smirk hooked the corners of her lips as Cullen gaped, unsure of what she had just said. She stepped closer, her shoulder touching his just so, a soft brush enough to spin his head. And if he thought her voice alluring before, her soft whisper all but brought him to his knees.

“I’ll save a dance for him.”

He cleared his throat, unable to believe the situation as it unfolded. Clearing his throat, he gave her a sidelong look. “Does this have something to do with the fact that I told you I’ve not taken any _vows_?”

She shrugged, a nonchalant lift of her shoulders as she replied. “Not if you don’t want it to be.”

 _Maker’s breath_ , but he did. Confliction sickened him at the thought. She was no ordinary woman he desired. She was the Herald of Andraste, a holy figure, so pure he could see her in no other light.

Except that wasn’t true. Since the moment they had met, something had drawn him in. What it was, he was unsure, but there were myriad things about her – her selflessness, compassion, and constitution, to name of a few – that drew him to her with relentless ease.

With a breathless sigh, he spoke, stuttering. “I don’t … I am afraid to inform you that the Commander is not much for dancing.”

“Does that mean you’ll go?” she asked, excitement shining in her eyes so blue.

No, he wanted to say, he would not attend a silly party in the tiny tavern in the middle of a war, he had far too much work to do and recruits were in dire need of continued training.

“I’ll be there,” he heard himself say.

He should agree to take more breaks, if only to see the incredulous look on her face more often.

“Truly? You’ll be there? Have a drink? Dance even though you don’t want to? Find a pretty girl to sit on your lap?”

 _I’ve already found a beautiful woman I want on my lap_.

“What?”

He swore that he had not spoken aloud, but leave it to his mouth to betray his thoughts. Eyes downcast, he muttered, “Nothing, I – sorry, it has been a long day.”

“Cullen?”

He looked up to find a smile on her face so rare, he wondered if anyone else had ever seen it. Soft, it reached only the corners of closed lips, endearing eyes warm and inviting.

“Yes, Amallia?”

Her nose crinkled as her smile deepened. “Save a seat for me?”

His lips parted to protest, to contend with her misunderstanding, but there was little use in denying it. She had seen through him to the core and read him like an open book. At least no one else had overheard.

He closed the distance between them, a soft voice for her ears alone.

”You’ll always find a seat with me.”

* * *

The second his anger flared, Cullen regretted ever stepping foot in the tavern that evening. Song and dance filled the space, tables and chairs pushed against the walls. Drink flowed plentiful as men and women traveled along the tiny dance floor, their revelry loud enough to wake the dead.

In the center of it all was Amallia, spinning and twirling with anyone who took her hand. There was no shortage of them. In fact, every man in the tavern was keen on dancing with her, waiting in lines along the edges of the floor, some more patient than others.

It had to be the alcohol that clouded his judgment so, jealousy barely contained. It wasn’t as if he had any right to be jealous. They hardly knew each other. But there was no denying the way he felt. The moment they first met across the war room table, his interest had been piqued, and in the ensuing weeks, her relentless desire to protect those in need served only to interest him further. A woman after his own heart, he admired everything about her.

Then, there was the Breach. She had stopped it from growing, sealed it, and Cullen thought they had nearly lost her once more. Him, the ex-templar, concerned for the well being of the Herald, a mage. How had he let himself become infatuated with a woman such as her?

And yet, with every hand on her waist – her hip, Maker’s breath, her _backside_ – Cullen was amazed he had any teeth left to grind. How brazen of those men, those _cretins,_ to treat her like some tavern wench to fondle, to grope with greedy fingers?

He turned his back to them, unable to stand the sight any longer. As much as he wanted to rectify the situation, it was not his place to do so. Undermining her power by rescuing her from lecherous men – especially when she had not requested the help in the first place – would only give her cause to hate him. A part of him wondered if she already did, his templar past intimidating to a mage.

But he knew that was not the case; she always seemed comfortable around him, if not outright enjoying his company. She often sought him out for advice and took what he said to heart, agreeing with him as often as she agreed with Leliana or Josephine.

As he glanced over his shoulder, he scowled at the sight of her dancing with yet another soldier. Angered at both the situation and himself for caring as much as he did, he scoffed as he turned back to the bar and his ale.

“Trouble, Commander?”

Cassandra leaned over the edge of the bar to his right, full mug in her hands with an elbow against the polished wood.

He took a swallow from his own mug before replying. “No.”

Her glare brooked no nonsense. “Talk, Cullen. You asked me to keep an eye on you. I am. What is it?”

Resigned, he sighed as he looked to her. “It hurts. What would you do?”

Her brow furrowed as she looked about the tavern, his question lacking context. But when she spotted Amallia in the center of the dance floor, engulfed in another soldier’s arms, an eyebrow raised as she turned back to him.

“Are you—”

“What. Would. You. Do.”

He didn’t dare look back at the scene again, and could hardly stand to look at Cassandra, his closest friend in ages, as she spoke.

“There’s a great many things you could do, Cullen,” she started. “Her favorite meal is Fereldan stew, her favorite flower is crystal grace, she finds royal elfroot quite relaxing, and enjoys dancing to raucous tavern music, as you’ve witnessed.”

Cullen turned to her in confusion, frown contorting his face. “How do you know all of that?”

She searched the bottom of her mug for an answer. “We … talked,” she stuttered as she brought the drink to her lips.

“You talked to the _Herald_ about her favorite food?” he asked as he glanced to the dance floor once more, but snapped his eyes back to Cassandra’s face before he saw too much.

“Yes,” she stated with a flat glare. “We were … learning about one another. Amallia is a very good friend. I care about her very much. And we have quite a bit in common, it so happens. Books and sparring, in particular,” she finished with a laugh.

Books. He wondered if she liked fairy tales or historical texts, stories of mystery and valor or recounts of Thedas’ grim past. And sparring. She liked sparring. Maybe he should ask her to train with him, see what she knew of swords and shields.

“Maybe I’ll … talk with her. At dinner. Another day.”

“When you’re ready, Cullen. Good luck,” she bid as she left, heading for a table across the tavern where Blackwall sat with Sera.

 _When I’m ready_.

_What if I’m never ready?_

* * *

“Commander!”

The weight of her crashed into his lap as Amallia plopped down, a blur of limbs and purple hair. A secluded corner of the tavern had served him well, the lone chair at the table turned away from the dance floor where he could quell is jealousy in silence.

But then she was there, appearing from thin air to fall into his lap with her arms around his neck and Cullen froze. He didn’t know what to do, didn’t know where to put his hands or what to say, and Maker’s breath, he could breathe nothing but her scent, her _chest_ inches from his face.

“You saved me a seat,” she said with a smile.

Gaping like a fish, Cullen stared, words failing him. Andraste’s _tits_ , but she was beautiful. He knew that, had known that for weeks, months. The sweat along her hairline did little to diminish that beauty. If anything, here enthusiasm only drew him in further. When her eyebrow tilted up, he shook his head to clear the fog of surprise.

“Ah, yes,” he started, “I did. I said you’d always find a seat with me, and I meant it.”

“Even your lap?” she asked with a coy smirk.

His hands found her waist. “Yes, even my lap,” he said with a shy smile of his own.

“Good, I like it, it’s a nice seat,” she said with a wiggle of her hips and it took all of his strength not to pull her closer, hard against his chest.

“I … like having you here,” he whispered. “I was wondering if you would find me. You were very … preoccupied earlier.”

“Dancing, yes! I’ve not had that much fun in years!” she exclaimed. “Not much dancing going on at the Ostwick Circle.”

Fun? She found random men groping her _fun_?

“I’m … glad you enjoyed yourself,” he managed, awkward and stuttering.

Either he was far too easy to read or she was incredibly perceptive. Both. Probably both. Her hand cupped his cheek as she drew his face up to peer into her eyes.

“Are you alright?” she asked, tentative voice dropping just above a whisper.

“Fine,” he stated, recalling the men with which she had danced.

“No, something is bothering you, I can see it. I’ve upset you,” she guessed.

Maker, how was she able to do that? “You’ve done nothing wrong,” he began with a shake of his head. “It’s my problem. I’ll handle it.”

Her eyes narrowed, scrutinizing glare judging him as if she debate whether she believed him. And then she spoke a truth he had hoped she would not figure out for herself. Except she was far too brilliant for that.

“Those men. The ones I danced with. They bothered you.”

It was _not_ a question.

“Yes. I am sorry, Herald, I should go,” he said as he tried to lift her from his lap, but she wouldn’t move.

“No,” she demanded as she pushed against the table, pinning him to the chair. “You have nothing to apologize for. _I_ should apologize. I shouldn’t have let them behave in such a way, I was trying to—”

“Amallia,” he interrupted, “it’s not your fault. _That_ could never be your fault. _Their_ actions are _never_ your fault.”

Calloused. Her hands were _calloused_. The rough skin rasped along his cheek as her fingers slipped into his hair at the nape of his neck. And her smile shown brighter than the midday sun, relieved and elated all at once. It slipped to a coy smirk with which he had grown familiar.

“You were jealous of them?”

Somehow, she made the idea sound nowhere near as ridiculous as it felt. “I was. I still am.”

The soft smile she seemed to reserve for him returned, curling the corners into dimple cheeks. Maryden’s lute plucked at a soft melody as Amallia slipped from his lap and grasped his hands to draw him up from his seat.

Cullen followed, cautious, unsure. It wasn’t until Amallia lead him to the empty dance floor that he saw most patrons had turned in for the evening and only nightly regulars remained at the bar. Maryden’s dulcet tones filled the cozy room, easing the tension from his shoulders, worn from a day of training in armor. Amallia’s hand remained in his as the other came to rest at the top of his bicep.

Without a second’s hesitation, his free hand slipped between her shoulder blades, palm firm and flat, high on her back. Too proper? Prudish even? The bemused raise of her brow said as much, but Cullen maintained his choice.

“You _are_ quite the gentleman,” she began as she stepped in time with his leading foot. “I didn’t know the Chantry taught young templars how to dance.”

“They don’t.”

His tone had been far too harsh, harder than he had intended. But she seemed to take the statement in stride, thank the Maker, and didn’t press the subject further.

Seconds turned into minutes before Maryden’s song ended but Cullen wanted nothing more than to stay there forever, as much as he hated dancing. Forget the Inquisition, the rifts, the templars, and the mages. Forget it all and be themselves, not the  _Herald_ and the _Commander_ , not a mage and an ex-templar. Amallia and Cullen. Two people, just like everyone else.

His feet stopped, knowing better than he did that it was time to return to reality. Amallia hesitated, an extra step in their tiny world for an extra moment. They shared a soft laugh, an easy, carefree sound Cullen had not heard come from his throat in many years. And the song it sang with hers? No music sounded sweeter.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her hands lingering in his.

“I should be thanking you,” he replied as he pulled her closer. “I … feel much better.”

“Not jealous anymore?” she asked with a sly grin.

He returned the look with his own smirk. “Maybe a little.”

“We’ll have to find another solution, then,” she jested.

He considered the thought a moment before responding.

“I have a few ideas.”


End file.
